Double Vision
by ninamonkey
Summary: Scott faces the battle of his life after losing the two people he cares about most, but the X-Men can't help him this time.
1. Eyes Wide Shut

* * *

_AN Update: _

_ I'm always a little reluctant to offer revisions…I feel like I'm mucking up the original. However, this piece needed it, and a number of people wanted to see more scenes—at the time, I couldn't write the painful details. But DV wouldn't leave me alone! It wasn't finished, and I had to finish before I could move on. This story was difficult to write. It physically hurt. But it needed to be written._

_On a positive note, I was able to explore more of Scott and Ororo's relationship as friends, which was an unexpected bonus. I really didn't see that bit coming._

_So without further adieu, Double Vision, **Revisited**…_

* * *

Part One: Eyes Wide Shut

_I didn't expect that it would happen so soon. I mean sure, thirty, forty—maybe even fifty—years down the line. I expected that we would get old and gray together. Gray...some play on words. If it weren't so damned sad I'd laugh. _

_So why am I writing this down? Because they made me do it. To stay, I have to give them a record of what happened. I told them I really didn't feel like talking about it so they said write a damn diary. What am I, sixteen? My students would laugh at me. Yeah... My students. Those kids aren't mine anymore, are they? I lost them a long time ago, after I lost myself... _

_I can't do this. I don't want to remember. _

______________ 

  


Jean had loved this time of year. The transition between summer and fall made her steps light as she anticipated the rush of new kids, and she loved playing in the last rays of the summer sun. She'd force Scott to go to Hilton Head beach, even when he thought the water was getting ice cold, and she'd stuff sand down his shirt like one of their students. She glowed during these times, as brightly as a pregnant woman would. "Soon," she would whisper in her husband's ear, "we'll have children, and you can stuff sand down _ their_ shirts, and teach them how to swim against the breakers. Next year. Let's make plans for next year. "

_We never had the chance, Jean. Why?_

Ororo was crying, and she never cried. Rain fell from the sky and mixed with her tears, marring her flawless dark skin with thin, wet streaks. The rain was her doing. He admired her for not holding back this time. He wanted to cry like that, wished he could, but he was still in shock. Jean and Professor Xavier...Dead. It didn't make sense. Nothing did anymore.

Scott Summers skimmed the large, somber gathering. Logan, Ororo, Hank, and the school's newest teacher, Kurt Wagner, comforted as many children as they could but it was impossible to help all of them. The sea of damp faces cried out for answers; he didn't have any. A fluke, Hank said. An accident. Some new mutant with the power to create a psychic feedback loop got scared when the Professor and Jean tried to help him. The more they tried to calm him down, the more nervous he got...they didn't realize how powerful he was and he ended up burning out his own brain along with theirs. Sad and ironic, that a child they were trying to help ended up helping them to an early grave. It wasn't the kid's fault. He wasn't the enemy; he was one of their own. An accident, like Hank said. A fluke.

Logan tipped his chin to him, nodding his condolences while squeezing Ororo's shoulder in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. Scott would've appreciated the gesture, if he didn't feel so shocked. He mechanically tossed in a rose and said good-bye to his wife as the pallbearers threw in their shovels of dirt. They hadn't even been married a whole year. No anniversaries, no babies, no—

His throat twitched. _Jean_, he cried in his thoughts, but their psychic link was irrevocably severed. His mind echoed in darkness, and he was painfully, utterly alone. _Professor…I can't do this by myself_. _Don't leave me. Jean…Dammit, you can't be gone. Just answer me…_

"I'm sorry, Scott," Ororo whispered. Had the funeral finished? "If you need anything—"

"No. I'm fine," he said. His voice was hollow.

She squeezed his hand. "We will get through this. All of us, together."

"Yep."

One by one the mourners left the site, saying goodbye to both Jean and Charles in their own way. Everyone said something, or touched him in some way, but he barely heard them. He vaguely remembered Jean's Dad trying to speak with him, and her mother telling him to let it be. Did they blame him? He would have. Not only was he the team leader, but he should have also protected their daughter. He was their son-in-law, and he failed them miserably. Jean's parents stayed with him for a while until they left him in the rain. When he was finally by himself, he squeezed his eyes tight, unable to see anything but the death mask of his wife's shocked, frightened face.

He blinked. The rain had stopped; his suit was simply damp, not soaking wet. He had been standing, staring at the mound of cold, wet earth for more than an hour. Perhaps two.

Suddenly he wasn't sure what to do.

"Boathouse," he murmured to himself. Sounded like a good enough idea. He trudged behind the mansion, secretly glad for the solitude. He didn't want a whole lot of people telling him how sorry they were, or asking him if he needed anything. Yes, they were only being polite, but he couldn't really answer how he felt right now. Stunned was a good enough word. Shocked was better. But neither of those words really did his feelings justice. After all, how was he supposed to feel, now that his surrogate father and the love of his life were both dead?

When he stumbled up the steps of the boathouse and entered the front room, the memories from their pictures and trinkets rushed him like high tide. "No," he said, gently pushing the images to a colder, more rational place. Jeannie and Charles were dead, end of story. He pushed back the anger, the bitterness, the sadness. He didn't have time for it. Instead, he took out a large cardboard box from one of the closets and a bottle of red wine from the cupboard and put each memory of Her into the box. His fingers shook in the beginning, especially when he caressed their wedding photo. But the wine helped him do what he had to do. When he'd finished, and Jean was no longer part of the house, he had unconsciously gone through two and a half bottles of wine. Still, he hadn't shattered.

Numb....That was the word. Numb felt good.

_______________

Over the next few weeks, Kurt Wagner's skills proved invaluable, and Scott didn't have to face the hallways of sad and lonely faces. The kids crammed into the former priest's philosophy classes to talk about Jean and the Professor, and Kurt used his pastoral skills to counsel the children and bring them closer together. Scott was beyond pleased. He didn't have had the strength to answer any of their "whys." He was their new Professor X, and he had to fight the banks and the lawyers, and he had to reassure the parents that the school would stay open. He had to keep the requisitions filled, make sure that everyone had the right supplies. What was easy for a telepath was downright impossible for one man.

"I need a blasted secretary," he muttered. It didn't help that his head was throbbing, either.

//Bampf// "I hear Warren Worthington has an excellent receptionist."

Scott jumped. "Dammit, Kurt, I wish you'd stop popping in like that."

Wagner smiled. His fanged, white teeth clashed eerily against his blue fur and yellow eyes. "Sorry. I knocked, but since you didn't answer I didn't think you were here. I only teleported in for one of the Professor's excellent commentaries on St. Paul. His book collection _ist Wonderbar_." 

Kurt's forked tail twitched mischievously as he skimmed through the thick books but Scott ignored him. He had to have the financial books balanced before the IRS audit next week, and things weren't looking too good.

"_Ausgezeichnet_--! Here it is. Part two of Stanley's research. Ever read it, Scott?"

"I'm a little busy here, Kurt. I don't have time for philosophical debates."

Kurt leafed through the pages with a small smile on his fuzzy face. "Ah, you should make time. At least for the Bible—it can be a comfort. You know, it seems as if you haven't had time for many things, _mien freund_."

"I wonder why. It's not like I lost my wife or anything, or that the school isn't falling apart." Scott rubbed his forehead warily. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."

"_Nicht möglich_! Not really. Why shouldn't you have said it?" Kurt blinked at him with his gleaming eyes, but Scott couldn't tell what the man was thinking. "You really should talk to someone, Scott. You stay in the Professor's office, you work late, and you go to bed. That isn't much of a life."

Scott slammed his pen on the desk. "What, I'm supposed to celebrate now that my wife's dead? Throw the school a goddamn party? Paint the _town_?"

"_Nein_, that's not what I meant," Kurt said softly. He sauntered over to the desk and placed three thick fingers on Scott's tense shoulder. "Your friends worry about you. You aren't giving yourself the freedom to grieve, and you're trying to pretend as if nothing's happened. You are not the Professor, and no one's asking you to take his place. Please, if you need help, ask for it. We are here for you."

"I'm _fine_, Kurt." Scott shrugged Kurt's hand loose and half-laughed, half-snorted while slapping a stack of documents across his desk. "All I need is a freakin' secretary to get out from under this mound of paperwork."

If Scott's flip retort surprised Kurt, the mutant didn't show it. "_Sehr gut_. But my door is always open, _ja_? I shall call Herr Worthington tomorrow and ask if he knows of any good secretaries who are willing to work for a bunch of high maintenance mutants. If any exist."

"Yeah. Good luck." Kurt grinned and left Scott to his calculations. "Wait, Kurt—"

"_Ja_?"

"Thanks."

"Anytime, Scott."

____________

_Thinking back, I probably should've taken him up on his advice. I don't mean for the secretary--Warren actually found us a good one: A telepath named Betsy Braddock. Not only did she help with all the admin garbage, but she could teach, too. She even took some of Jean's chemistry classes. As far as I know, she's probably still at the mansion._

_But I was probably even more on guard after talking with Kurt. I hate looking like some charity case. I'm not that good at asking for help—I'm used to giving orders, not accepting them. I tell people what to do, and I expect people to follow what I say. Logan calls me "stiff" and maybe I can be inflexible. But I have to do it my way, on my own terms, or I feel...well, lost. Surprises bother me. If that makes me cold sometimes, I'm sorry. It's just who I am._

_Sometimes cold is good._

______________

He shivered because of the dream. The more he wanted to get on with his life the more the dream kept interrupting it. She was screaming behind a locked door he couldn't open. Xavier was shouting in his ear, "Help her, Scott! You are our savior. _Scott_--!" He would smash the door with his fists, hit it with his optic blasts, but it never opened. And then suddenly the door would fly back on its own and he saw their bodies…thick, meaty chunks, bloody and clawed. Raw and fresh.

_You did this to us_, Xavier's echo accused. _You killed us._

He smelled her perfume but the female echo touching his mind was both shadow and ice. _Scott? Didn't you love me enough to save me? Why didn't you help me? Why? _

"I did my best…"

_It wasn't enough, Scott. You weren't good enough. I thought you loved me. I married you and you didn't protect me. Why?_

"I'm sorry! I did my best!"

_It wasn't enough…_

An arm yanked him from his desk, shattering his dark thoughts.

"C'mon."

"What the hell--?" He'd been fidgeting with the metal band around his finger and didn't notice Logan's approach. He felt embarrassed that the man caught him consumed by his thoughts. "Wolverine, I've got stuff to do. Go away."

"Fuck the stuff." He dragged him out of Xavier's office. "You've been mopin' in that tomb for more'n a month now. It ain't healthy."

"It's my job," Scott spat between his teeth. "And who're you to talk about healthy, smoking cigars all day? I don't have time for your games. I've got--"

"You got nothin'," Logan muttered. "It's Friday night, most the brats're gone for the weekend, and your shit ain't due for 'nother two weeks. It's time."

"Time for _what_?"

Logan grinned, and it scared him. "For some fun."

* * *

They had the audacity to kidnap him and drag him off to some greasy dive near Harlem, where no one cared what you looked like as long as you had money to pay for drinks. No one gave Kurt's tail a second glance, or gave Hank's huge blue girth so much as a shrug. Better yet, they weren't the only obvious mutants in the place.

"Where'd you find this lockup?"

"Yellow Pages," Logan retorted. He filled Scott's glass with a noxious substance. "Drink up."

"Forget it."

"If you don't, you'll never get outta here."

Scott drained his glass. "Happy? Now let's go."

"Ah, c'mon, mon ami." The fifth of their motley band was a new kid, Remy LeBeau. He was older than the students at the school but the youngest at their table. He'd been pitching in with the covert missions from time to time, ever since Scott took over running the school.

"You can't be dat bored dis soon. We got a whole night planned."

"Great. Is this Boy's Night your bright idea, Logan?"

"Nope," he said, swigging his beer. "But you wouldn't believe me if I told you who suggested it."

"Try me."

Hank laughed. "Ororo thought it would help lighten your mood."

"_Ororo_? No way. She'd never suggest something like this."

"Tell you what, homme, dat woman full o'surprises."

The entire table chucked and glanced at Logan, but Scott just shook his head. "And she was the sane one. A teacher mutiny...Just what I need."

"Trust me," Hank said, sipping his wine. "It is."

"You stiffer than a starched shirt in January," Remy muttered, downing his bourbon with a sharp hiss. "You need to relax, homme. Take your mind off de world a while."

"I'm fine," Scott said, but the words rang hollow even in his ears. He tuned out the laughs that followed and stared miserably around the room. He could've been at the mansion, could've been planning next week's budget, keeping track of—

His eyes landed on a gorgeous redhead laughing at the bar. Even though he saw nothing but crimson, courtesy of his ruby quartz glasses, he knew the exact tint of his wife's hair. That woman had it, down to the last strand.

"Well?" Kurt asked.

"What—? Sorry. I—I wasn't listening." He tugged his ring finger, noticed that his glass had been refilled, and drank the contents quickly. It felt smooth and warm.

Kurt nodded at the gold circlet, rubbed dull by Scott's nervous hands. "I asked if you've given yourself time to grieve yet."

Scott's jaw tightened as he glanced at the other men around the table. Remy was telling them some dirty joke, and the attention—and the pressure—had shifted away from him. "I guess so. I don't think about it."

"At all?"

"No. Why should I?" He found the bottle that had been going around the table and filled his shot glass. "It's not like there's anything I can do. I've got to go on with my life. For the sake of the school."

"'For the sake of the school,'" Kurt repeated slowly. He watched Scott massage his wedding band with his thumb. "Interesting choice of words."

"What are you, my shrink?"

"No, just your average pop philosopher. A rather bad one, at that."

Scott smiled a little. "Yeah, well, cut it out. I'm dealing with it in my own way. The only way I know how. I'll get through it. I don't really want to talk about it."

"I heard you tossed out Jean's pictures and mementos."

Scott tapped his glass on the table dangerously. "I told you, Kurt, I'm dealing with it my _own_ way. Besides, I didn't burn them; I just put them away. I don't want to talk about it, and I want you to quit riding my case."

"Fair enough." Kurt nodded and raised his glass in a small salute. "To idle chit-chat, then."

"To chit-chat," Scott echoed. He drank, enjoying the sudden, creeping coldness spreading throughout his body. He needed to feel cold. If he were cold he didn't have to think. Or remember.

_____________

_…. I can get into my cocoon and shut out the rest of the world, and I can safely remember her, and forget it all at the same time--the more I remember, the more numb I can become. It's the only way I can get rid of this damn, sightless hole in my gut…. _

_I admit that it worked. I learned how to destroyed my soul. _

_____________

The midnight air was crisp, chilly. It reminded him of the first time he met Her, during a fall evening mixer for Xavier's students. She had been talking with a beautiful mocha-skinned woman with snow-white hair—_naturally_ white hair, he discovered, and part of her mutation. Although he was awestruck by the white haired goddess, his heart skipped when he saw the redhead. Jean smiled at him, and he fell in love on the spot.

"Scott? What are you doing up this late?"

He looked up, blinking. A gentle breeze touched a lock of his hair, as if the person speaking had swept her fingers through it, and Ororo Munroe landed delicately next to him. The first time he'd seen her fly he nearly choked. How in the world could she stay aloft without falling? The physics of it baffled him. Between her relationship with Jean, and his persistent questions regarding the mathematics of her flying abilities, they had become like brother and sister.

"Couldn't sleep, 'Ro."

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You really should try. It's late."

"I could tell you the same thing."

She smiled that funny little Mona Lisa smile of hers. It was the closest she came to laughing out loud without opening her mouth.

"Late date?"

She nodded.

"With Wolverine?"

She smiled again and hugged her shoulders proudly. "On his bike. I had never ridden one before. Logan convinced me that it wasn't as dangerous as I believed it to be."

"Did you like it?"

"Very much. It reminds me of flying with far more dangerous thrills." He was laughing at her and she squeezed his cheeks. "Now I see why you love it so."

Scott's laughter abruptly stopped when her eyes searched his a little too closely. She lightly traced the contours on his stubbled face and pursed her lips. "Do not make me worry about you. You are too thin, and you never sleep—"

"I'll be fine."

"I am concerned, Scott," she pressed.

"Ororo, I'm _fine_." He jerked his chin from her fingers and was about to wave her away until he saw the anger in her eyes. She made that same face when they were young, when he did something she didn't like. It made him feel weak, like a cornered animal.

"_Are_ you?"

"Cut it out, 'Ro," he said quietly. He glanced at the ground and the night wind sent a strand of her hair into his face. "Don't treat me like an invalid—or worse, my mother. It was okay when we were kids and I didn't know any better. But I'm a big boy now."

She folded her arms, unconvinced. "Then why did you transfer the X-man leadership role to me?"

"Because I needed to," he said, turning his back. His eyes followed a fallen leaf whipping in circles in the wind. "I can't be both Headmaster and X-man at the same time. Besides, you've got the skills. You've certainly taken the helm better than I have of late."

She spun him around. "You informed me by _e-mail_, Scott, without _asking_ me. You avoided me to keep me from discussing this with you and you've never done that before. And I refuse to believe the excuses that you are too tired to command the X-Men and that you are 'too busy' with administrative duties. You _love_ leading the covert team. It's your heart, your passion. You wouldn't give it up unless something was seriously wrong."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't lie to telepaths, and he couldn't lie to Ororo. That was the problem; she was too close to him. He grabbed a stone from the ground and flung it over her shoulder, where it echoed sharply off a tree. He waffled between telling her the truth and screaming, _it's none of your fucking business. _

"You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"No. Not until you admit that Jean's death is seriously affecting your reasons for leaving the X-Men."

"You don't think I should leave? Then give me a good reason to stay." He rubbed his hands across his face and stuffed down his anger. "Someone's got to run the school, right? Hell, the deaths should've impacted all of us. It's like everyone fucking forgot that detail except me." He sighed and hunkered to his knees, softly caressing another stone. "Sorry. Excuse my language."

"No apologies are necessary. At least you're getting angry, which is _something_." He stiffened as she touched his shoulder. "Scott, we've been friends for a long time. I love you. You don't have to keep to yourself--let me _help_."

He jumped to his feet and jammed his hands in his coat pockets. She didn't understand. Nobody did. Not even Ms. Braddock, their new resident telepath. Not one person came close to his hell. He _missed_ Jean's presence in his mind. He missed her soul, her random thoughts. He missed her small mental boosts of confidence through the day, especially when a student acted up. Death had to be easier for telepaths. When they died, they just…died. But his mind felt as empty as a school hallway the first day of summer break. Couldn't everyone leave him the hell alone?

"You and Logan are seeing a lot of each other lately."

He barely saw the quirk on her dark lips. "I suppose so. But I am not worried about him."

"Maybe you should be. You ever think how your relationship with him could compromise the team?"

Her snowy eyebrow shot up. "You and Jean didn't have any problems."

"Jean and I knew each other since we were kids," he said, pacing the ground. "You barely know Logan. We don't even know what he's capable of. You've sworn to respect life, and he's a killer. You really think it's going to work out?" He clucked his tongue at the look of optimism on her face. "Come _on_, 'Roro. Even you can't be that dense."

He saw a small flash of anger in her eyes. _It's okay for you to be in control, but not me, eh, 'Ro? _

"My relationship with Logan is none of your business."

Scott came directly behind her and purposely put his lips close to her ear. He whispered softly, but the intensity and anger in his voice parted the hair on her temple. "And the way I handle my personal problems is none of yours."

He was halfway to the mansion when she spoke again. She spoke softly, but her voice carried on the wind, hitting his sensitive ears. "Perhaps, Scott, but I am not the one running from the truth."

He neither turned nor answered her.

____________

Human beings had to sleep. All the textbooks said so; all the articles ever written on sleep deprivation said so. Without sleep, the human mind would hallucinate. The body would break down. Madness would result. So yes, Scott found it easy to justify what he did—he had to sleep, right? Pills made him gag, and he didn't like the unpredictability of medication. And pills weren't soothing, like a spring rain. They didn't massage his muscles or loosen his joints with any kind of tenderness. Pills didn't taste or smell like birthdays or holidays or promotions or special occasions. They didn't remind him of skiing weekends or of anniversaries or of dinners with loved ones. They didn't erase bad memories as soon as they came. They didn't blot out the pain like a thick, down comforter.

He dreaded the night. He couldn't shut his eyes without experiencing psychic echoes of Jean's voice and presence. He slowly realized that it just made logical sense to down a few shots to help him sleep. Every time he heard Her pleas he could put up his liquid mental shields and the Professor's accusing voice would fade. The liquid cocoon made him stronger and more confident. He found he could deal with people again and put up with incessant questions and fighting kids and classroom chaos. He had to avoid the harder questions for a while, but he could do that. The others wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. The whole plan had such a simple solution. All he needed was some good nights of sleep, without the dreams. He'd just do this just for a while, until he could really be himself again. He'd be back to his old self in no time. Better, maybe. He just had to wait until his mind sorted it out. 


	2. One Eye Blind

_***_

_AN2: Yes, I changed the dynamics of Scott & 'Ro's relationship, in order to fit the story. I'm not sure how well I succeeded, but I think it fits for Movieverse. Ahhh, heck. You'll let me know if it flops or floats._

_***_

Part Two: One Eye Blind

_Knock. Knock._

"C'mon, Summers. Rise an' shine."

Remy yawned and rested his head against the doorframe. It'd been a long time since he'd had a hangover this bad, and Stormy yelling at him at nine thirty this morning didn't help it any. She'd been madder than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest. It wasn't his fault they came home plastered. If she really wanted to get mad at someone, she should've yelled at ol' One-Eye. _He_ dragged them off to that greasy dive, and the damn show off had to try drinkin' him under the table. Almost did it, too. 

"Forget it." The voice sounded muffled, as the words were being shouted from a pillow. "It's _Saturday_, dammit."

Remy chuckled and plucked a small lock pick from his left shoe. "Dere's only one way out of this one, Cyko—apologizin' to Stormy. She ain't too pleased with either one of us at the moment."

He easily opened the boathouse door and glanced around with his thieves' trained eye. There wasn't anything of real value in the place, a few trinkets, maybe. But if he considered blackmail, the half-hidden bottles were a real find.

"Remy, I'm not in the mood." Again, from the pillow.

"Just seein' if you're still alive, homme. Nearly gave dis Cajun boy a run for his money last night."

Scott shuffled from his bedroom and headed for the refrigerator disheveled, unshaven, and still in his clothes from last night. Remy's eyebrow rose. The grunge look didn't suit Summers. 

"Thanks for the night," Summers said, sneering. "Thanks a helluva lot." He threw back the refrigerator door and grabbed a decanter of orange juice. He offered it to Remy, who shrugged and lit a cigarette.

"_This_ is my breakfast," he said, smiling. Scott waved an arm, choking on the smoke. "If it's any consolation to you, Summers, I ain't feelin' dat much better myself. Had you pegged all wrong. You can pack it away almost as good as the Wolfman."

Scott coughed while pouring the juice. "Never again. You've should've dragged me home before that stupid round of Jell-O shots. What the hell were we thinking? We aren't damn kids. And put that damn cigarette out, would ya? It's turning my stomach. Smells like Bobby's socks."

"Touchy, touchy," Remy muttered. He ground the cigarette beneath his boot. "Didn't see you puttin' your glass down any faster."

"And who gave you permission to come in here anyway?"

"It was either me, or Stormy. Who would've you preferred?"

"Ah. Good point."

"Thought so."

Remy sighed and collapsed on the couch. Quaint, that was the word for the Summers' place. But too lonely. He saw discolored rectangles where pictures used to hang and dust covering boxes in a corner, and the place had a musty odor, as if it hadn't been cleaned in a while. It felt like a mausoleum.

"Why's 'Ro so mad, anyway? It's not like it's Wednesday afternoon, or anything."

"Seems like you forgot some kind of parent/teacher mixer thing on the front lawn. You were supposed to make some speech, or somethin.'"

"Shit," Scott muttered. "I forgot. But that's at ten o'cl—"

Remy chuckled and held up his wrist. "It's a quarter past two. You done slept through it. When I tried explainin' to Stormy that there was no way in hell you'd be sober enough to speak, she had a fit. They almost called it off when they saw those clouds comin' in."

"She should've woke me," Scott muttered. "I could've done it."

Remy laughed. "Homme, we dragged our sorry butts to bed at seven this mornin', and we were still tanked _then_. How the hell you supposed be sober after three hours? Maybe your right pinkie was sober, but you were out cold. You're prob'ly _ still_ drunk."

Scott frowned at the thought and sighed. "I could have…I might have been able to do it. She didn't have to cover for me like that. I still have obligations. She's not my damn mother."

Remy glanced at his fingernails. "You actin' like she is."

"You're one to talk." 

Remy smirked, and a small look of triumph shadowed his features. "I still make my obligations."

"Screw you. I didn't ask for your opinion."

"True." Remy took another cigarette from his shirt pocket, ignoring Scott's grimace. "But I got my head on straight. I ain't so willin' to cross the line."

"There _isn't_ any line, you bonehead."

"Really?"

"Yeah. _Really_." Scott rifled his fingers through his hair and dumped a jigger of orange juice in a glass. "LeBeau, your concern's misplaced. I'll be honest with you, though. Maybe I'm drinking a little more than normal."

Remy raised his eyebrow.

"Okay, fine, maybe a _ lot_ more. But…c'mon, everyone's been saying I'm stiff as a board. Think I don't know about the 'stick up his ass' wisecracks?"

"We didn't t'ink you noticed."

"Yeah, well…I do." Scott smirked and tossed a small shot of vodka into his orange juice, missing the subtle frown on Remy's face. "I'm a normal guy. Sometimes people forget. Even _I_ forget. So I'm trying to show my 'normal' side more often, which scares people. It'll take them a while to get used to it. No big deal."

"Scott--" Remy began. If Stormy saw this one, she'd hit the stratosphere. Her favorite little leader wasn't a quiet nerd anymore, and it looked like he was headed into dangerous waters. 'Course maybe it was stress like they all were sayin', but apart from Wolverine—who could get sober in ten seconds flat—he didn't people drank in the morning unless they already had some kind of problem.

The uneasiness must have shown on his face, because Scott slammed down his glass and grit his teeth. "Don't hand me any bullshit. Kurt's on my case enough." He added more alcohol to the juice. "I don't need to 'grieve more' or whatever."

"Didn't say you needed to. I'm jus' sayin'…well, be careful, dat's all." He smirked. "It ain't natural for a man to drink me under the table without havin' somethin' wrong with 'im."

Scott laughed. "No sweat, man. I've got it covered. It's all under control."

"If you say so, Summers."

"Trust me. I know my limits. I see the line, and it's way off in the distance." He sauntered over to Remy and clasped an arm around his shoulder. "Nice that you care, but sorry, I'm a complete hetero."

Remy smirked and shook his head. "Yep. Dat stick's definitely comin' out."

Scott grinned. "Best compliment I've had in a while. Thanks."

"No probs." Remy checked his watch again. "Incidentally, Her Royal Highness requests your presence in about five minutes. I already had my ass-chewin'. Time for yours, pretty boy."

"Great," Scott sighed. "As if a hangover isn't bad enough." 

"Jus' turn on the charm," Remy beamed. "Worked for me." 

"Wouldn't have anything to do with your mutation, would it? No, of course not." 

Remy slapped Scott's back and headed for the door. "Just tell 'er it was a mistake, and it won't happen again. Play up her maternal side. Works like a charm." 

* * *

Ororo couldn't help the dark claps of thunder when the last parents left. This was inconceivable of Scott. Inconceivable and absolutely irresponsible. So unlike him. 

"Would you like some tea?" 

Ororo turned from the window, smiling at the British voice. Betsy had done so much during the day, including calming her down when Remy revealed his news. The woman even had Scott's speech typed and prepared so everything went off without a hitch. The parents had no idea. In fact, they assumed that Ororo had become the new Headmistress—a fallacy that seemed more and more true as of late. 

"Thank you, Betsy. Yes, I would." 

Betsy touched her shoulder. "I wouldn't get too upset with his antics, Ororo. I think it was Jean's birthday the other day. Cut him some slack." 

"I understand, Betsy. But still…" She sighed, and her demeanor quieted at the look of utter peace in Betsy's eyes. _The peace _you_ should have_, she chided herself. "No. You are right. But I must say something. Surely we cannot allow this to continue." 

"You'll find the right words. You always do." 

"Only sometimes," she sighed. 

After Betsy exited, she returned to the front window and peeked through the huge dark curtain. She had to be honest--her feelings didn't completely hinge on Scott's actions. He was part of her disquiet, of course, but she hadn't appreciated Logan's unexpected flight a few days ago, either. They had had a fight the other day, about his "duties" to the school, and he left a note on the kitchen counter a few days later—addressed to Everyone. Logan cited another lead of some sort, but he left without saying goodbye. Was she simply an "Everyone" to him? She had thought herself much more. Perhaps it was only she who wanted more. 

"Ororo." 

She gripped the curtain, and couldn't resist one final thunderclap. "Scott. Did you sleep well?" 

He winced a little from her barb. "I don't know if I did or not. Doesn't feel like I did." 

"I see." Betsy entered with a pot and two mugs on a tea tray, and placed it on the edge of Ororo's desk. She gave one steaming mug to Scott and winked at him, and he smiled gratefully in return. It made Ororo wonder if Betsy's feelings for Scott didn't run deeper than the surface level. 

She waited for Betsy to leave before facing Scott. "I did not like covering for you today." 

His jaw muscles tightened as he sipped his tea. "You shouldn't have to. The event was my responsibility, and I should have been there. I apologize—it slipped my mind." 

"Yes. Drinking has a tendency to make people forget." 

Scott made an ugly noise. "'Ro…honest. It was a one-time thing. I went overboard, and I had no right to. I kept thinking about what I would've got Jean for her birthday, then Remy invited me out for a few drinks—" 

"Remy did? He said _you_ invited him." 

Scott chuckled. "Do you really think I'd ask _him_?" 

Her face softened. "No, I don't suppose you would." 

He relaxed and came over to her, and hugged her carefully—more carefully than he'd ever done in the years she'd known him. "I'm sorry, 'Ro," he said softly, and she relaxed in his arms. "I'm getting over it, but it's taking me longer than I thought, and I need some more time. Maybe…maybe you can take over some more duties of the school. I'll still teach," he amended when she balked, "but I still need some time to go over some things. Can you be a little patient with me a little longer? I promise…I'll get over all this. You'll just have to trust me on that one." 

"Scott…I don't know. There is so much that seems unlike you lately. I feel—" 

"I know, I know. But I'll change. Trust me." He looked at her abruptly. "How are you and Logan doing?" 

"All right," she whispered, but he knew she was lying. She pulled apart from his gentle hug and placed her fingers on the windowpane. "We had some…words, but nothing that cannot be repaired." 

"Is he coming back?" 

"I am uncertain. I hope so. If not, I will chalk it up to experience." 

He came behind her and rested his chin on top of her head. "He's stupid if he doesn't come back. If he doesn't, I'll personally track him down and kick his ass for you." 

Ororo giggled, releasing the tension in her stomach. "Very well. I will let you, if he doesn't return. But Scott…" 

He held up his hand. "I know, I know. Be careful. I promise, Ororo. Stop worrying about me, okay? Just give me time." 

She scanned him earnestly, but couldn't detect any malicious intent. "All right," she nodded. "Time. I at least owe you that. And thank you, Scott." 

"You're welcome," he said, and left her office. She wondered why she was even upset about such a little thing as missing an event. They had too much pressure on him—why hadn't she thought of reducing his duties in the first place? Sighing, she sipped her tea, and embraced the peace she had recently denied herself. 

_______________

_Oh, yeah, the X-Boys know how to drink, all right. We can drink the bars dry—except for Logan, of course. That guy could drain the Jack Daniels distillery and still walk a chalk line for the cops. But I thought I could handle it. I told myself that I wouldn't go too far. I couldn't allow it. I wouldn't look foolish. Yes, I was tired of being in control, but people counted on my control—does that make sense? I wanted to test how out of control I could get without really losing control._

_....I guess the talks with Remy and Ororo were turning points in the wrong direction. If I could fool them, I could fool anybody…. _

_I have the power to kill people with my eyes, and with that kind of power you can't go around out of control. So I began learning my tolerance levels. I learned how to fake happiness. I learned how to look, smell, and sound sober. Learned to lie about how I felt without feeling guilty. And I learned how to hide my secret weakness—even from Logan. I learned how to separate myself into Scott Summers the leader, and Scott Summers the man. I learned how to get bombed without blowing it. I wasn't killing anyone and no one knew my secret. I felt free to be myself. And it felt great. _

_So, like I said, it worked—almost. _

_If I have to pin down a day where it all started going downhill, it was probably after my talk with 'Ro. I didn't know that the walls were crumbling around me._

________________

Logan had forgotten what it meant to have a place to rest. He felt a little uncomfortable calling the institute "home" since he still expected to wake up in some Canadian lab, but so far he'd been lucky. No one was coming after his sorry hide. No one followed him with knives or automatic rifles or whatever the hell governments used to bring down "dangerous" mutants. During the past few months he'd awakened safe and sound in either a motel near the Canadian wilderness, or in the forest where he last pitched his tent. But he'd still been running. Truth was, he hadn't left two months ago to dig up old ghosts. He knew the real reason. Knew the reason why he'd probably stay in New York, too. 

A sharp breeze kissed his face and he smiled at its gentle reminder. He'd spent two hours walking Xavier's grounds, thinking about what he was about to say, and he didn't need to delay it anymore. Maybe this time he could make it stick. 

He turned from the clearing just as another set of boots clumped noisily on the opposite side of the lake. His eyes narrowed, watching the solitary figure sneak into the clearing, and he instantly pegged the scent as it rode the winter winds. He doubled back into the woods, backtracking to the opposite side, and let the snow muffle his slow, careful pace. As he hovered in the thin covering of trees, he carefully took in the man's new, sour scent while a bitter snarl touched his lips. 

"Afternoon, Summers." 

Scott whipped around with his fingers to his visor, nearly slipping on the lake beneath his feet. His fingers shook when he realized who it was. "Dammit, Wolverine. You looking to get incinerated? What the hell were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that?" 

Logan chuckled and emerged from the trees, kicking at some snow-encrusted dirt with his boot. "Just walking around. The woods out here ain't half bad. It's no wilderness, but it'll work." He sniffed, glancing around the frozen lake. "A little jumpy, ain'tcha, Cyke? 'Ro switch yer decaf to Columbian, or somethin'?" 

Scott's jaw hardened, but he walked to the dock and slowly paced across it. The wood beneath his feet popped and creaked, as if ready to collapse. "No. I came up here to think." 

"You mean drink, don't'cha? You tryin' to hide from 'Ro an' the others?" 

"No," he said sharply; decisively. "I came to _think_." 

Logan stopped short of laughing out loud. "You must've got me confused with another lame-ass mutant. Yer lyin' to a man who can smell a frog's fart from twenty miles away." He sniffed lightly. "Johnny Walker, if I ain't mistaken. You've downed four or five shots—and that's so far, if the flask in your coat's any indication of drinks to come." 

"Fuck you," Scott spat. 

He simply smiled, and smelled the sharp tang of fear wafting from the former X-man. "Don't try to bullshit me again, Summers. I hate liars almost as much as I hate people who sneak around." 

"What the hell're you doing back, Wolverine? I thought you'd still be on one of your three-month visits to Canada. You planning on breaking Ororo's heart again?" 

He shoved down a growl. "Do you want the truth, or d'you just feel like tastin' adamantium?" 

Scott shrugged a little, and backed down from his defensive posture. Wolverine relaxed then and gestured to Scott's coat; Cyclops reluctantly extracted the silver flask from an inner pocket and threw it at him. 

"Thanks," Logan said, catching it deftly. He took a small swig and threw it back. "Never figured you for the liquor carryin' type, Cyke." 

"Things change," Scott said, taking another sip. "And for your information, I'm not trying to hide, it's quieter out here, that's all. Now. You were telling me about you and Ororo." 

"No, I don't feel like breakin' her heart again. I'm stayin' for a while." 

Scott nodded sagely. "You tell her that, yet?" 

Wolverine sighed, unsure of his words. He'd been thinking along those lines, and figured he just had to bite the bullet and say it. "I haven't made it to the house yet. Been out here a couple hours. Saw you come up, thought I'd join ya." 

"She's been worried about you." 

"Funny. That's the same shit she told me about you right before I left." 

"Just don't break her heart again," Scott muttered. He put the flask to his lips and drank deeply. "Then I'd have to kick your butt." 

Wolverine nodded, agreeing. But Summers was beginning to bug him. "She still leadin'?" 

Scott cracked a smile. "Why? Does the idea of her being in charge intimidate you?" 

"Heh. Nope. Not in the least." He tugged his earlobe. "Just explains why no one's had the balls to stand up to you yet." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

"She looks up to you like an older brother, and she's protectin' ya too damn much. She probably thinks that if she swept yer little problem under the rug, eventually you'd wake up on yer own." 

Scott's fist tightened around the silver flask. "She's doing a damn good job, Wolverine. And she knows well enough to leave me alone. Unlike you." 

"Whatever. I call 'em as I see 'em. But this is 'Ro's show. If she don't want to make a move, I ain't gettin' involved. You can swim up the New York sewer system for all I care. But get this, Summers," he said. He purposely made his voice low and predatory. "When she's ready to kick yer sorry butt to the curb, I'm behind her 100%. When she's ready to call you a drunk to yer face, I'm there. And if you hurt her in any way—" he emphasized his point with one adamantium claw—"You'll hurt, too." 

Scott just sneered. "Me, hurt _her_? You'd better look in the mirror. You haven't been around. You don't know what the hell's going on." Another thought seemed to hit him as his features hardened. "I bet you already went to the house, maybe talked to Remy, or Kurt. They can't come up to me personally, can they? They have to send you to 'scare' me into talking to them. Figures." 

Summers took another long drink and Wolverine shook his head while trudging back up the dock and following the footpath to the mansion. "You're a drunk, Summers. The quicker you get that through your fat head the quicker things get back to normal around here. I'm goin' up to see 'Ro, to do what I should've done two months ago, but I won't tell her about our little 'talk,' or about you comin' down here to hide yer drinkin' from everyone. In my opinion, it'd be good for ya t'own up to yer addiction. But I ain't all that good at givin' advice." 

"Asshole," Scott muttered, and Wolverine thrust his middle digit over his shoulder. Cyke was headed downhill fast, and trying to talk to him now was just stupid. _He needs to fall, and fall hard_, Logan thought. _But he'd better do it soon before he accidentally kills one of us._

________________ 

"I just don't get it, Mr. Summers. It's _hard_." 

Scott worked his jaw and checked the clock on the wall—4:15. _Dammit_, he could've been home nursing his second drink by now. His leg jiggled, and he looked at the girls with as much patience as he could muster. 

"It's not supposed to make sense, Marie. It's theory. You have to work out the logical sequences to—" 

"Huh?" 

He grit his teeth and glared at Jubilee. "Jubilee, we've been over this and over this. If you don't get it, you should ask Kitty. I've got—" 

"Kitty's busy with that new Russian kid," Jubilee whined. "Why'd you give us this stuff to memorize anyway? It's not like we're going to use it in the real world." 

He slammed the textbook on the table, making the girls jump. "Between you two, you've got two brains. _Use_ them, dammit." 

"Sorry, Mr. Summers, I'm just dumb, is all," Marie whispered. "I just can't get this. I'm stupid." She tugged plaintively at her gloves and Scott immediately felt guilty. It had taken Charles a few good months to coax her out of her shell, and here he was shoving her back in. He was about as great of a teacher as he was at saving his wife's life. 

"Girls, I apologize. I've…I've just been under a bit of pressure lately." They nodded, understanding completely… Innocently. Scott sighed and opened the book to a different page. "You're both capable of this stuff. And," he said, staring at Jubilee, "you need the basics of mathematics to help control your mutations. It'll help you pass physics and chemistry, and it'll make sense when you apply it later on. Honest." 

He felt his throat go dry. He wanted…No, he _ needed_ a drink. Right now. "Look…why don't you study this chapter together for a while, and come up with a few ideas of your own. I need to get some things done, but I'll be back in, say, thirty minutes? See what you can come up with. We'll check your work together." 

Jubilee and Marie grinned. 

"Thanks, Mr. Summers." 

"You're welcome." 

They struggled and scribbled across the page and fretted and cursed the book for what seemed like forever, and Marie finally slammed down her pencil when the clock hit 5:30. "He _ditched_ us." 

"Mr. Summers wouldn't do that," Jubilee muttered. "He's Mr. Anal Retentive, remember?" She traced a pattern in her math book and popped her gum. "Hey, what'cha get for question 34? I keep getting six, but that can't be right. It's supposed to be an irrational number." 

"Get real, he ain't comin' back." Frustration made her southern accent stronger than usual. "He's gone. Prob'ly on some mission. Dang, I wish they'd ask me to come along some time." 

"In your dreams, Roguie. Now c'mon and help me do this before he thinks we didn't do anything." 

Rogue frowned and poked her paper with her pencil. "He seem different to you lately?" 

"Who, Summers? Well, _duh_, he only lost his wife, like, seven months ago." 

"Naw, that's not what I meant. He's…I dunno, short-tempered one minute, peaches 'n' cream the next. A regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." 

Jubilee looked up with a confused look on her face. "Who?" 

Rogue rolled her eyes. "Dear heart, you've got to pay more attention in literature class. No wonder you're gettin' D's." 

"He's just going through the grieving process, like Mr. Wagner said." Jubilee glanced down and started to smile. "Hey, I think I found the answer! Check this out." 

"Hmm," Marie sighed. She wasn't really listening. "An' he's always chewin' on some kinda weird flavored gum or breath mints." 

"So? He's got halitosis. Big deal. So does Bobby." 

Rogue made a face. "Bobby does not!" 

"The kid's got dragon breath. If you weren't so into him you'd notice." 

"Yeah, well, he's cute. He's gotta have some flaw. It's the law of nature, Jubes." 

"And it's the law of nature for us to flunk this math test if we don't get it." She did a double take when she saw the clock. "Where the hell is he, anyway?" 

Rogue grit her teeth. "That's what I've been tryin' to tell you! He di…" 

She trailed off at the sound of whistling in the empty halls. It couldn't be Mr. Summers—he never whistled. The girls exchanged glances and crept to the door, wondering who'd be dumb enough to stick around the classrooms after 5pm on a Friday, besides them. But when it was in fact Mr. Summers rounding the corner with a crazy grin on his face, Marie sighed. 

"You seem happy, Mr. Summers," she said. He swayed slightly, but leaned up against the doorframe to steady himself. Not quite comfortable with his closeness, she took one pace back from the door. He still wore that manic, unsettling grin, and his cheeks were as red as his glasses. "Um, we were worried that you'd…you'd left…" 

She made a face at a suddenly strange, acrid scent. He smelled like…like— 

Jubilee started laughing. 

"And what's so funny, young lady?" Scott folded his arms, trying to be as intimidating as possible, but it wasn't working very well. He kept swaying, which made Jubilee giggle harder. 

"Jubes—!" Rogue hissed between her teeth. She poked her friend with her elbow. "Cut it _out_. It ain't funny!" 

"He's totally wasted!" She rasped back. "Man, is the world about to end, or what?" 

Scott almost fell from the doorframe. "You had an assignment. Did you finish it?" 

"A-almost," Jubilee said. She choked down another laugh. "Sure you're feeling okay, teach? You look a little…parched." 

Marie shot her a deadly look. "Jubilee just meant that…well, maybe you should lie down for a spell. You don't seem like yourself." 

"I'm perfectly happy, girls. Perfectly." He stumbled into the room and snatched the textbook from his desk. "Now, lessee if we can square this ol' hypotenuse, shall we?" 

"Uhhh…that's okay, Mr. Summers. Jubilee an' I were just leavin'." 

"We were?" Marie pinched her. "Ow! Okay, geez! Yeah, we've got…dates." 

"Gotcha. Don't let me stop you in the least. Trust me. That test'll be a breeze. I'm making it up tonight." 

"Oh, I can't wait to read it," Jubilee giggled. "You don't know how much I—Ow! Marie, quit pinching!" 

"We're leavin', Mr. Summers. Uh…" Marie bit her lip, unsure of what else to say. Watching Mr. Summers was like watching a bad car wreck happen. It made her sick, but she couldn't stop staring at it. Everyone was wrong. He wasn't getting any better at all. And it explained the gum, the times he came into class late, and the mood swings. Sweet Jesus, how often had he taught their class drunk? 

"C'mon, Jubilee," she whispered, dragging her friend into the hallway. When they were safely out of earshot, she gripped Jubilee's elbow hard enough to cause a bruise. "We tell _no one_, got it?" 

"Rogue, you're so lame! We could get A's in math for life." 

"Jubilation _Lee_--!" 

"I'm kidding, kidding." A mask of worry mingled with disappointment hung on her face. The same look, Rogue thought, that matched her own. "This…this doesn't look good for him, does it?" 

"I dunno," Rogue sighed. "It's probably just a one-time thing, maybe…" 

Rogue swallowed her words. She couldn't justify it. In her heart, she knew the truth. 

________________

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she went downstairs for chamomile tea. Although she preferred the sharp taste of green tea with a touch of lemongrass, green tea had a touch too much caffeine. At two a.m. on school nights she needed her rest. She smiled a little. Logan had offered to join her downstairs, but she needed some time to herself. To think.

_Crash_.

Ororo Munroe froze halfway between the kitchen and the sitting room. Her eyes glazed over slightly, and the air around her quietly crackled and hissed.

"Is someone there?"

Her soft, alto voice was calmly controlled, but if the wrong person came around the corner she wouldn't hesitate to strike them with lightning. The school had had far too many scares of late. Once news of the Professor's death reached the ears of their enemies, it seemed everyone wanted to challenge the school and its pupils. Scott, at least, seemed to be coming along, and would hopefully take back the lead so they wouldn't be spread quite so thin. He wasn't quite as depressed. Perhaps he was even more willing to converse and be seen, and willing to be more involved with others' lives. Yes, Scott was still rather secretive, but she expected that. Scott had always been a very private man. Although Kurt, Remy, and Logan didn't trust his change, they did not know him as well as she did. He _was_ getting over the losses, but in his own way and his own timing. 

"I will not warn you again."

_Koff, koff_. "Don't have to. 'S'okay, 'Ro. Tripped on a chair."

She narrowed her eyes and crept closer to the dark kitchen. It sounded like Scott, but why would he be sitting alone, in the dark? He usually slept in the boathouse. 

"Scott?"

She heard a snort, and stuck her head around the kitchen door.

"Dear goddess..."

"C'mon, sit. Drink?" Scott's hair hung limp over his glasses and his movements matched his slurred voice. He held some noxious bottle over a glass and slopped a good portion of it on the table and his glass.

"No, thank you," she said, regaining her composure. "You should sleep. You have classes tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah. Forgot." He almost giggled. "I'm a goddamn teacher. How 'bout that."

"Scott…you—you'll be sick tomorrow. I'll tell the students—"

"I'll be fine," he snapped. He drank from his glass and Ororo went calmly to his side and took the bottle, pouring the remaining contents into the sink. "What the hell--? That wasn't yours! I wasn't done."

"This is unacceptable behavior."

"Oooh, yeah, big bad Summers has a few drinks an' everyone's scared."

"And if one of the children came downstairs? What example would that set?"

"They'd get a good look at their teacher. The 'real' Scott Summers. The one who couldn't save their beloved doctor and their mentor. The failure."

"Let me help you to bed."

He slapped her hand away. "I don't need anyone's fuckin' help. I'm goddamn peachy. I'm feelin' fuckin' hilarious. Jean's _dead_, did you know that?"

"Yes, Scott. I know. I'm sorry. But this...this is not the way to handle her death. "

"I miss her, 'Ro. Can't stand it any longer. I need her. I miss her. My wife…dammit, why?" He rested his head on his hands as his body shook with sobs. "Need her, 'Roro. Can't live without her. Need it. Make the pain go away."

Her heart broke and she hugged his shoulder. "I cannot, Scott. You will have to want to change your circumstances. If you still want my help, tomorrow—"

His sobs abruptly stopped. "Don't need help! Told you that. I'm fine. I need a drink."

"You've had enough for tonight."

He shook her loose, floundered to his feet, and stumbled back until he hit a wall. "Fuck you. Fuck your goddamn happy life and fuck your boyfriend. Fuck it, goddamn _fuck_ fucking life. I need a _drink_, goddamn it!"

The guttural words sent shivers down Ororo's back. Overnight, someone had come and replaced her good friend with an angry, bitter, hateful man, and she did not like him. "If you raise your voice to me one more time, I shall knock you unconscious. Is that understood?"

"Sorry," he slurred. He began crying again and slid down the wall. "Damn, 'Ro. I'm sorry. Jean…I'm sorry, Jean. Didn't mean to kill you. I love you, Jean. Miss you. Need to feel warm again…"

Ororo used her power to help carry him back to the boathouse. Scott had been under a tremendous amount of pressure, but she had never, _ever_ seen him in such a state. His anniversary had been last week, which could account for this slide, but if she had known he had hurt this bad, she would have spoken with Kurt long ago. As she helped him to his bed, she realized that the painfully thin person before her was a broken man. A hurting man. And he was a proud man—one who would never forgive himself if the truth of this night were told to others.

"Scott?"

"Yeah, 'Ro." He was barely conscious. She hoped he could understand her. 

"Promise me you will speak with Kurt. And that you will never drink like this again."

"Never again, 'Ro. Promise."

"I will hold you to that, Scott."

"I know."

As his breathing slowed and turned into snores, she frowned and brushed the hair from his eyes. He had allowed his hair to grow somewhat long, and sported a shadowy beard. Her old Scott Summers, her dear friend, would never have allowed himself to denigrate to such a state.

_I promise to keep silent about this, Scott_, she thought to herself. Her fingers caressed his cheek, and his lips formed Jean's name._ Just promise me this is the last time. For Jean and Charles' sake, promise me that you will get better from now on. _

* * *

She paced the hallway the following morning, unable to face Scott's class. She had to lie to the children, and she did not appreciate being put in such a position. And worry for Scott's welfare had kept her up until the early hours of the morning. Poor Logan. He respected her too much to push the issue, but he didn't like it when his 'Weather Goddess' was upset. He would probably take it out on the gym class—more's the pity.

"Hey, 'Ro."

She looked up, startled to see Scott clean-shaven and sober, but the only hint of her surprise was a single raised cloud-white brow. "Scott. I was going to mark you absent for the day."

"No need," he sighed. He tightened his grip on his briefcase and jostled it against his knee, staring at his classroom door. "I'm here. A little late, but I'm here. Ah, 'Ro…" his glance traveled the floor tiles. "I remember everything about last night. Um…Thank you."

She lightly touched his chin. "You are scaring me. What I saw—"

"I was an _idiot_, 'Roro," he said softly. He shook his head and couldn't look at her. He reminded her of a repentant little boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "I can't believe I acted like such an asshole. I…I kept thinking about my anniversary and I'd had a few drinks, and I guess wandered into the mansion, remembering her. Remembering her lab." His jaw clenched. "God, 'Ro. I'm sorry you saw that. I'm sorry I let you see that."

A small, sad smile touched her lips. "Will you let us help you now, Scott?"

His throat twitched. "Absolutely. I promised you last night, 'Ro, and I mean to keep it. You won't see me like that ever again."

"And you will speak with Kurt?"

He held up three fingers. "Scout's Honor."

"Since when were you a Boy Scout?"

A real smile split the sadness on his face. "Blame Logan. He calls me one all the time."

"You're no more Boy Scout than I."

"Thanks 'Ro. I owe you one. And you don't have to worry, I'll be as sober as a church deacon from here on out." He laughed and squeezed her shoulder. "But…would you mind if we kept this between us? I'd hate for the others to think something else that's not there. You _know_ me," he pressed, as if sensing her hesitation. "The others haven't known me half as long. You _know_ you can trust my word."

"All right, Scott," she whispered. "You do not need to convince me. Now go, teach."

He nodded and ducked into his classroom. She watched him with a small frown, wondering if what she had seen was simply pure chance, or the tip of something much worse. But she trusted him. She trusted him when he led her into battle and trusted him when he gave his word. As far as she was concerned, the matter was both closed and settled.

_______________

"That's just it, Kurt. I _don't_ have a problem. Everyone else has the problem. You especially."

Kurt Wagner watched Scott tip a small snow globe in his hands; the one purchased from a small antique store in New York as a reminder of gentle Bavarian winters. Miniscule skiers rotated back and forth in the flakes in time with Scott's patient hands.

"I will not judge your actions here, Scott. Only you can determine if a problem exists, or not. But Ororo was concerned. Perhaps you should consider her feelings as well."

Scott chuckled and tapped his forehead with the paperweight. "Don't play shrink with me, Kurt. I've had enough psychics running around my head to know when I'm being played." He sighed and put the bauble back on the edge of Kurt's desk. "I just wish she'd stop worrying about it. All of you are making a huge issue out of nothing."

"How so?"

Scott frowned at him and sat on the edge of his desk, and went back to fondling the globe. Kurt would have believed him, had he not also counseled others who played cat-and-mouse with the truth.

"Okay, okay. I admit it, you're right, Kurt. I'm not done grieving. I guess I'm still working through it. But does that mean I'm a lush?" He slowly shook his head. "I have a few drinks, then I get on with my life. They think I've got some big problem just because I grieve differently from them. Hell, 'Ro jumped into Logan's bed, didn't she? I don't see anyone complaining about that."

A small smile touched Kurt's fuzzy face. "Perhaps they were meant to be, Scott."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. She gets her comfort her way, I get it mine."

Kurt tilted his head, trying a new approach. "Do you think Ororo's desire to grieve, as you say, hurts or helps the institute?"

"Personally, I think they're headed for trouble. If those two got into a fight, no one'd be safe." He shrugged. "But if she's happy, I won't hold her taste in men against her."

They both chuckled. "I suppose, Scott, that I'm wondering what you would do to help her, if Logan began retreating into his feral nature. If he hurt her, would you reach out to her?"

"Of course. So?"

"Perhaps that's the way she's feeling about you."

"Yeah, I guess. But she's not seeing the whole picture. She doesn't understand. None of you do."

"If you explain it to us, Scott, we'll try to understand."

Scott placed the paperweight carefully on the edge and stood. His jaw was as tense and stiff as concrete. "Nice try. But Ororo's out of line, and this little 'session' is really pointless." He put his hand on the doorknob. "See you around, Kurt."

When Scott left, Kurt felt a deep sadness in his heart. Scott was far too stubborn, far too proud, and far too bitter to listen to reason. He wrapped three thick fingers around the snow globe, watching the artificial snow scatter across the tin ground in thin streams, like floating spider's webs. _Perhaps_, he thought sadly, _our former X-leader will come to his senses before it is too late. But I fear his time is running out. _

________________

She chewed the tip of her pen while staring at a stack of student's papers. "Anna," she muttered, circling an answer. She clucked her tongue. "You know better than that."

"They say talkin' to yerself's a bad sign, 'Ro."

She smiled faintly and glanced up at Wolverine. He had his arms crossed and was leaning against the doorframe of her classroom. "It helps me think. I thought you had something to do this afternoon."

He shrugged. "Just lunch. How 'bout it?"

"How about what?"

He ducked behind the door for a second and held up a basket. "Lunch, 'Ro. You know—knives. Forks. Food. Somewhere between noon and two o'clock."

"Logan! A picnic? What would that do to your rugged, manly image? What would Sabretooth say?"

He scratched his chin, smirking. "Probably something I wouldn't wanna repeat in mixed company. So, you want lunch or not? 'Cause I can take this puppy back if you ain't hungry."

"I have a lot of work to do, but I think I can make an exception. Especially since Wolverine picnics are so rare."

* * * 

She loved the hot sunshine on her face and the feel of Logan's rough fingers through her long hair. It had been eight months since the deaths, and she had bonded unexpectedly with him. He had chosen the mansion as a second home, after the call of the wild road, and his urge to stay became more and more frequent—especially, she thought with a small smile, since he had found his reason to return. He even taught a weekly martial arts class so she was sure to see him at least weekly, if not more often. In the beginning they came together for mutual comfort, but a deeper attraction had in fact developed. _Sometimes_, she thought sadly, _good things come from tragedies. _

Ororo sighed softly and Logan responded by kissing the nape of her neck. Her sigh became a gentle moan, but he held back and tickled her neck with his beard instead. Her strong mood told him not to go beyond the point...yet. Tonight, her body promised. Tonight. She had too much to do right now and too little time to complete all of it. Betsy was a godsend. At least she knew where Scott kept the most pressing issues, papers, and documents.

"Logan?"

"Hm?"

She glanced at him as he sat back. The lazy way he propped himself up on his elbows reminded her of a sated male lion after a kill. "We should act."

He shrugged. "Like I said before, I trust yer judgment, and you've known him longest. I told you what I thought a few months back."

Ororo weaved her fingers, and Wolverine cupped his rough hands around them.

"Do you still feel the same way, Logan?"

"Yep. And he's gotten worse, darlin'."

"I wish it were not so. He promised me. Perhaps…"

Logan kissed her cheek, but his voice was harsh. "You know the truth. You've known it for a while now. Hell, even Betsy's been pickin' up the slack in his classroom, and he can't teach more'n three days without pullin' a disappearin' trick." His voice softened at Ororo's gentle frown. "I know you love 'im but you ain't any more blind than I am—you just wanna play optimist. But the kids in there ain't blind, either."

"Some are too young to understand."

"Most of 'em ain't that young. They've already started makin' jokes."

"That is...most unfortunate."

"No shit."

"Logan, please." She sighed absently. "Each one of us spoke with him as individuals, warned him. Each one of us offered suggestions. Each of us pleaded, yelled, fought with him...I gave him ample warning, did I not?"

"More than ample. You're nicer than any crew boss would've been. They would've hauled his ass out to dry ages ago."

"I know. I would rather do anything but this...but he left me no choice."

"It ain't gonna get any better. Trust me. Do it now, before you lose yer nerve."

"I would never lose my nerve, Logan, but it helps to get additional opinions before acting." Ororo nodded grimly. "I'll tell the others to meet us in Scott's classroom after last period."

* * *

"Hello? Scott? May we come in?"

She put her head close to his door, unsure if he'd heard her gentle knock. A tiny, tinkling "clink" preceded Scott's voice.

"Door's open."

She had steeled herself for an uncomfortable scene as each one of them filled the office, but was surprised by the neatness of Scott's tie and the firmness of his jaw. Was she making a mistake? Surely there wasn't anything wrong. But no....she couldn't shake the doppelganger from her memory, the depressed, semi-comatose man in the kitchen, babbling about his lost love. Even now Scott's overly measured and controlled steps betrayed the truth: His mask was slipping.

He had a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, and scanned the group suspiciously. "What? Something wrong with one of the kids, Hank?"

The scientist shook his head. "No, not the children. However, we have...a problem with one of the instructors."

"Really." Scott filled his glass with a small half-smile and placed the bottle carefully onto the desk. "Seeing how it's all of you coming to see me, I can only guess who it might be. So? What is it this time? You think I should see a shrink again, Kurt? Turn my frown upside-down, or something?"

Kurt pursed his lips. "I wish you and I could have spoken more."

Scott snorted. He drained his glass and angrily refilled it, sloshing a good portion of bourbon onto a student's math test. "You told me to mourn. I'm mourning."

"No, you're actin' like an asshole," Logan growled. "You've always been a prick, but at least you weren't stupid. Yer binges put everybody here at risk."

"Rich, coming from you, Logan." He picked up the glass and gulped from it. "I'm by the book, remember? You're the risk, not me."

"Not from where I'm standin'."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. _I'm_ the psycho amnesiac."

Logan growled darkly, and Ororo put a gentle hand on his shoulder, restraining his anger. "Scott. Every one of us has mentioned something about this to you in past months. You decided to ignore us. We can ignore you no longer."

He ran his thumb against his glass. "Yeah, I'll bet. You always wanted to lead, and I gave it to you on a silver platter. Just waiting for your chance, huh, Ororo? Biding you time? Waiting for one of us to fall so you could grab the glory?"

"Scott, you are _not_ being fair—"

"C'mon, cut the little 'tough girl' act. You can't hack it."

He was about to take another drink when Wolverine swiped the glass out of his hand. "Lissen, ya damn drunk. You wanna drown in piss because Jeannie's dead? Fine. Go for it. But you insult 'Ro one more time, an' I'll spill yer guts all over this floor."

Scott put his hand to his glasses. "Go ahead and try it, big man."

"Enough." Ororo's flat voice echoed the explosion of thunder against the windows. The men slowly backed apart, but they still had clenched fists. Wolverine's claws had not yet sheathed. "Scott, your actions have proven to be both dangerous and erratic. For the sake of the students and the instructors, I am putting you on administrative leave."

Some of the faces in the room looked down, ashamed. Others challenged Scott to start something. He stared hard at every one of them. "Are you all that jealous of my authority that you're gonna kick me out? God dammit, I've saved every _one_ of your asses at one time or another. And you're kicking me _out_?"

"Scott, it isn't like that." Betsy came over to him and laid a soft hand on his shoulder. He seemed to crumple at her touch, and his anger dissolved into depression. The room knew she had a crush on him, despite his downward spiral over the past few months. "We just want you to rest a while. You need help. Won't you let us help you?"

"Et tu, Bets?" He shoved her hand off his shoulder and headed for the door. "Don't bother. I'm not the one with the problem. I wouldn't need to drink at _all_, if all of _ you_ didn't bring Jean up every fucking second. You all want this school so bad? You want to deal with the headache? Fuck you. You can have it. I'm out of here."

______________

_I jumped on my bike and lit out of there like a bat out of hell. I'm surprised I could see the road, drunk as I was. Pride? Yeah, maybe that was part of it. I really believed that I was fine, that my public image and my private image were two separate things. That the face I showed my colleagues...my friends...wasn't the same one that drowned in a fifth of bourbon after the last class. I told myself I was still in control because I only got drunk every once in a while off-hours, and only on the weekends. And only when the boathouse felt lonely and desolate...I didn't notice that my drinking had crept into weekdays, or that sometimes I took one or two "quick shots" in the morning to get rid of hangover jitters. I really thought I was still in control. They had the problem. I was fine. I was in control. Real funny how you can lie to yourself like that..._

_I'll wrestle any of the Brotherhood to the ground. I'll chase after any physical enemy you throw at me. But when it comes to the emotional side, I'd rather not deal with it. Give me something to hit outside of my body. I don't deal well._

_Hey, I bet Logan would fit this new crowd. He seems more like their type. Compared to them, I'm too normal. They know I'm not like them. _


	3. Second Sight

Part Three: Second Sight

I probably looked like shit.

I didn't bother looking in mirrors any more, didn't bother to do much but make sure I wore my glasses...at least I cared that much. But I didn't bother shaving a whole lot. Didn't matter what I wore—certainly didn't matter how often I worked out. Still, I told myself I was happy.

It'd been years since I had to work in the outside world, but it felt good. I could survive, and I didn't need _them_. Didn't need all those hassles and responsibilities, because new people depended on me now—people who didn't ask so many questions, didn't doubt me, didn't look at me with judgmental eyes when I came into work half-loaded. The new people didn't remind me of Jean every five minutes. Hell, most the people I work with are worse off than me. Everyone in the warehouse is either INS bait, or half-high. Our boss doesn't care as long as we clock in, clock out, and do our jobs right. We get paid like everybody else. Mutants? Who cares, as long as they help bring in the cash.

Because I spoke English and did a decent job, I quickly made it to shift leader. We loaded trucks from dusk 'til dawn and then sometimes got ourselves loaded, after work. No one cared that I wore dark glasses all the time. They figured I was either some kind of mutant, or that my eyes were pretty bloodshot. If only they knew just _how_ bloodshot.

Mark Barnes was another mutant on my shift. He was a dark-skinned man with gold eyes, with the power to see alternate futures, he said. He didn't drink.

"Used to," he said to me once. He took a cigarette out of his back pocket and smoked it slowly during one of our scheduled breaks. I was itching for a quick drop, but the boss was coming with some of the inspectors. We had to keep it cleaner than normal, and we had to hide all the illegals and the obvious mutants. Even Barnes put in his tinted contacts.

"One drink won't kill you."

"You think so, huh?" He chuckled sadly. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too. You know how hard it is to see visions, man? To keep all that stuff in your head without goin' crazy? It's impossible. You gotta deal with it, or try to block it out. I tried to block it, and hit the ground. Hard."

"You look like you've got it all together."

He winced. "Lost my family, lost my kids...my wife got remarried last year. You ever marry, Summers?"

"Once. Didn't work out."

Barnes nodded. "It's hard to find a woman who accepts you for who you are. Loretta knew I was a mutant, but she loved me anyway. It's the drunk she couldn't love. I got real mean to her and the kids...real mean."

He puffed on his cigarette and stared at the ground. "I knew I had to get my act together after she left me. Took a while, but it happened. See, we got it tougher than most, you and me. It's bad enough bein' a human being—but a mutant, too? No one cares about us. _We_ gotta start carin' about us. Gotta start helpin' each other a little more. We've got an obligation to help our fellow brothers."

I smirked. "Sounds like an old teacher I had."

"Sounds like a smart teacher. Look, Summers, I got help. I found people who've been there, know what I'm sayin'? They're _really_ outcasts. They're mutants, but drunks and druggies, too. They've seen more crap, done more crap, and heard enough crap to help the rest of us. But they're good folks. They know how to help people like me. Like you."

I had no idea why he was telling me this. I certainly wasn't like that. In fact, I was drinking a lot less since leaving the mansion. I started to feel uncomfortable. "Good for you, Barnes. Glad you found the help you needed. I admire people who know when they need extra help."

He looked at me sort of strangely and stuck a new cigarette in his mouth. "Yeah. Sometimes we need to look beyond what we see. So to speak."

"So to speak." I smiled, thinking of his mutant power.

"Anyway." He lit his cigarette and got to his feet, stretching. "I learned how to use my power in a new way. Instead of stuffing it down, I try and see if I can use it to help people. I have that vision in me, y'know? God gave it to me to help put people back on track."

I shook my head. "You really believe that?"

He laughed and held down his hand to help pull me to my feet. "Sure. Beats drownin' in Mad Dog 20/20."

I laughed with him. "Antifreezebeats Mad Dog."

He nodded with a slight smile, and then suddenly thought about something else. "Hey, what're you doin' for Christmas?"

"Nothing, I guess," I thought. I didn't want to think about it. I'd begun hating the holidays. It was easier just to drown my sorrows than seeing all those happy families and their goddamn trees and menorahs.

"Well, since you ain't doin' anything special, why don't you follow me down to my Mom's place? A bunch of us get together, swap some stories. You know, stupid stuff like that. Just don't listen to my Uncle Dan's jokes. They're lethal."

I chuckled. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be okay."

"You sure, Summers? No one should be alone on the holidays."

_There's worse things than being alone_, I thought. "I'm sure. A few liquid dinners, and I'll make my own Christmas cheer—kidding," I said, catching the frown on Barnes' face. Sometimes I wondered if he had a humorous bone in his body.

"Well, you know I had to offer."

"Yeah, I know. Let's get that shipment off of Dock 12, before Miller gets back. Maybe he'll let us cut out early."

"Sure thing." 

Barnes slowly followed me back into the warehouse, but he was still deep in thought.

I guess I'd only been half-kidding with Barnes. During our holiday break, I succeeded in blotting out most of Christmas.

___________

Sometimes my nights in the warehouse blended together. We had orders to pull, and during the holidays things got more hectic. I probably drank a little more than normal and came in late a few days, but I didn't get yelled at much. According to Dan Miller, I was still the best shift leader he'd ever hired. I knew how to motivate the men and I knew how to get them to use their talents to get the most out of them. Miller was so impressed that after the Christmas rush he called me into his office.

"Scott, have a seat." He held out a glass and a bottle of scotch. "Drink?"

"Thanks." I took it gratefully. "Any problems?"

"No, everything's fine. Better than fine. You're doing a great job, and productivity's up 20% this quarter. Damn sight better than what we had last year. The men're gonna have great paychecks along with their bonuses."

"Glad to hear it." I polished off the drink. "Anything else?"

Miller shook his head, but I knew he still wanted to talk. His quiet, thinking mind reminded me of Professor Xavier a little—even though he was too short and had too much brown hair to look like Charles. But he knew how to feel out a room and make people comfortable with their surroundings. I wondered if he weren't a little telepathic.

"Scott," he sighed, "you know I like having you here. But you could practically get any job you wanted. Hell, you're good enough to be your _own_ boss. Why are you here?"

The question shocked me a little. "You don't want me to stay?"

"Oh, no, no. That's not it at all." He refilled my glass and his. "But...well, you're better than this. It's obvious you've had an education. You're smarter than most of these jerk-offs. Smarter than me, that's for damn sure."

Miller smirked, and I hid my own smirk in my drink. "I don't mind being here. It's not all that bad."

"I'm glad. Really, I am. But son, I can't help thinking that you're meant for so much more than this. You don't need to be here, and it's a waste of your skills. You should be some kind of corporate leader, or business owner, or—"

"Military commander?"

Miller laughed. "Well, okay. So maybe I'm pushing it a little. But I mean it. You don't need to be here. I can't help thinking that if you got rid of something you 'd be better off."

Miller glanced wistfully at my glass and I clamped my jaw. "Is that all?"

"Sure, Scott, sure," he said absently. "But think about it, huh?"

"I'll think about it."

After my shift, I drank until I puked.

___________

Things felt okay after my talk with Miller, but I dunno. Maybe I was restless, maybe a little under the weather. But afterwards I felt like a coiled spring every day. Sometimes I snapped at the men, but they took it in stride, since I was generally cool and I often went out with them after our shift, where all would be forgiven and forgotten. But something was wrong, and I couldn't put my finger on it. It felt like my life was falling apart, but it couldn't be. I was happy. 

Barnes came over to me with a half-grin on his face one afternoon, right before the dinner break. I was helping Conrad and Peterson load up a shipment of electronic parts and my muscles ached. I was ready to pack it in and go home, but we still had a busy night ahead of us. "Hey, Summers, you have a secret admirer?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

He held out an envelope. "Pretty handwritin', some girl's name too hard to pronounce, and an address up in ritzy Westchester."

I threw the last box into the truck and snatched the envelope from Barnes' thick hands. "How? How'd they find me?"

Barnes shrugged. "You won't know 'til you open it."

I balled it up and threw it on the loading dock. "That part of my life's over."

Barnes picked it up and followed me into the break room. "Looks important."

"Fine. If you're so interested in it, you can read it yourself."

He shrugged. I didn't really expect him to open it, but he did. Worse, he started reading it out loud.

" 'Dear Cyclops—'" He paused and looked at me with a sly grin. "Cyclops?"

I grabbed it from him. "None of your business."

Barnes chuckled. "Must be one of them pet names. Girlfriend must have the hots for ya, huh?"

I ignored the ribbing and sat leadenly in one of the chairs. Barnes grabbed two Cokes from the machine and slid one over to me. I took the soda, but as I read the letter, I knew I needed something stronger. That made me mad. I _had_ been turning into a lush at the mansion, what with all the reminders of Jean. I'd left to get away but they found me. They were pulling me back in.

_Dear Cyclops, _

_I am surprised as much as you. We searched for you for some time, but as Logan said, "it ain't much good findin' a man who don't wanna be found." Betsy and I were shopping a few weeks ago in the garment district, and we took a wrong turn down 7th Avenue. Much to my surprise, I caught a glimpse of you loading a box onto some large truck. Our traffic light turned green, and Betsy missed seeing your face by a few scant seconds. It was probably for the best. She cares more for you than she should. I kept silent about what I saw, since I know how much you prefer your anonymity right now. But we all miss you terribly at the school. All is forgiven. Over eighteen months have passed since you left, but the children still ask about you. Marie is heartbroken. Sometimes, when Logan isn't around, she even confides in me. She misses Jean and Charles, as do we all. And we all miss you just as much. Please come home. _

I put down the letter, unable to finish it.

"Good news or bad?" Barnes asked.

"Neither," I said. My voice sounded hoarse. I got up shakily from the table. "Hey, tell Miller I'm not feeling too well, would you? I'm taking off for the rest of the night."

Barnes made a face. "You know we've got that big shipment in a few hours, don't you? It's a big contract, and it's gotta go out tonight."

"I know, I know," I said absently. "You can handle it. We've got enough men."

"Suit yourself." He sipped his Coke. "Listen, Scott, if you need to talk about—"

"No," I said sharply. I clenched my fists and headed for the door. "I don't need to talk about it. I...I just need some time to get away. That's all."

"Okay," Barnes said. But I don't think he believed me.

_____________

I woke up in a place with bars on the door. My entire body ached and my head pounded.

"Hey, Sleeping-Mutant-Beauty's up."

"We-ell, how 'bout that. Welcome to the world, sunshine."

The biggest, ugliest cop I'd ever seen banged on my cell with his nightstick. I held my head down and kneaded my temples. "Aww, did that hurt? Hope it did. Hope it friggin' blows your head right off."

I sighed leadenly and ran my fingers through my hair. At least they knew enough to let me keep my glasses on. "What's the problem, officer?"

The two cops started laughing. "You, mutie. What else?"

"What's the damn _charge_?"

The big cop came back to my cell and banged on it with each statement. "You got an attitude? Well, how 'bout this: Destruction of public property. Trespassing. Disturbing the peace. Public intoxication. Attempted manslaughter."

"Manslaughter?"

"_Attempted, _moron," he yelled, and I massaged the bridge of my nose. "Blew a quarter-sized hole a few inches away from that guy's heart. Any lower, and he would've been six feet under. He'll be in the hospital long enough as it is."

I winced, suddenly feeling sick. I didn't remember any of it. "What happened?"

"People got hurt. Decent, _normal_ people. What more do you need to know?"

I was tempted to burn the wall a few feet above the officer's head but changed my mind, in light of what I'd been charged with. Attempted manslaughter...That worried me. I'd never, ever purposely fired on a non-mutant, but I didn't think I started frying people overnight. What the hell happened?

"I'm sorry," was all I could say.

"Little late for Joe Conrad, isn't it?"

My mouth went dry. "Joseph Conrad? I fired on _him_?"

"Yeah, your fellow worker. You came all high an' mighty to your job, drunk as a mutie skunk, and started punchin' holes in boxes with your ray gun retinas. Conrad tried stoppin' ya, so you started punchin' holes in _him_. Happy?"

"No. Not at all."

"Good. Glad to hear it."

I sat in the corner, too stunned to do anything but stare at the wall. How? _Why_? It scared me that I didn't remember going back to work. Scared me that I used my powers like one of the Brotherhood. I wasn't in as much control as I thought. I swallowed thickly. 

"Hey, laser freak, you gotta couple visitors."

I looked up from my cell and saw Miller and Barnes walking up. I felt too tired to get up from the floor.

"Not too long," the big cop said. "He's considered armed and dangerous, and there's nothing we can do to protect you, apart from gouging out his eyes."

"It's all right," Miller said quietly. "I think we'll be okay."

"Hey, Summers," Barnes said with a heavy sigh. He held a beefy arm over his head and leaned into the bars of the jail cell. "Looks like you got yourself in a hell of a jam, huh?"

My frown deepened. "How's Conrad?"

"Okay, for a man who just had a laser shot through 'im."

"I'm _sorry_," I spat. "I read that letter and I snapped. I…I made a mistake."

"Got that right."

"Barnes..." Barnes huffed and turned his back, giving Miller a chance to speak. "Scott, I really wish you didn't do what you did. I know you were mad that I fired you, but—"

"Fired? You fired me?"

Miller looked at me oddly. "Well, of course. We had a few big shipments, and when you didn't show up for three days, I had no ch—"

"Wait a minute, _wait_." I struck the wall and glared at them. "It hasn't been that long. I just left last night."

Barnes and Miller exchanged looks.

"Scott," Barnes asked quietly, "what day is it?"

I turned away from them and worked my jaw. "Tuesday."

"No, it's not. It's Saturday."

"Cut it out, Barnes."

"I'm serious, Scott. You're missing four days."

My hands started to shake. "No way. No _fucking_ way. I know exactly what day it is, because the Quantum Digital shipment was due last _night_."

"Last _Monday_ night."

I jumped to my feet, suddenly furious, and stabbed the air with my finger. "I know what fucking day it is!"

"Calm down in there, mutie, or we'll have to restrain you." The cop looked nervous. He didn't have the equipment to stop me if I cut loose, and he knew it. The other cop had his finger on his walkie-talkie, just in case. Barnes didn't flinch. He stared me down, and there was a touch of sadness in his eyes.

"You had a blackout, Scott," he said quietly. His tone was on a par with Wolverine's guttural growl, but he didn't sound angry—just sad. "You had one, because you're an alcoholic. You need help. You need _my_ help."

I shook my head and turned away from them. My knees felt weak and shaky but I didn't trust myself to sit down again because I didn't think I could get back up. "I—I went overboard, I admit it, but I'm still in total control of—"

"You call what you did to Conrad 'total control'?"

I didn't have an answer. My eyes felt hot, but not from my powers. I'd nearly killed someone. Nearly killed him, because I'd been on some bender I didn't remember having.

"Scott." Miller wanted me to turn around but I couldn't face them anymore. I leaned face first against the wall and rested my head on my forearms. God, what kind of monster was I? "You've done a lot of damage. Probably more than you realize. When...when you came in blazing, Barnes, Pettis, Conrad, and a few of the others had to take you down. You're not an easy man to knock out."

"Yeah. I know."

"Well, did you _also_ know that now I've got INS breathing down my neck because of you? When the police came, they saw a few of the mutants. They ratted on us, found out we've got a lot of folks who aren't on the books, and now we're looking at some hefty fines and lawsuits. I doubt we'll be in business much longer."

I cleared my throat. "Sorry."

"Yeah, I know you are. You said that already." He sighed and ran his hand across the back of his neck. "Well, that's what I get for not going by the book, I guess. Crap. Rodriguez was just getting his papers together, too."

"Sorry...I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

"Next move's yours, Summers," Barnes said.

I turned slightly from the wall. "What?"

"Conrad said he doesn't want to press charges. He knew you were drunk—said that he felt like doin' that a bunch of times to the company himself, and was glad someone actually had the guts to do it."

"Great. Now I'm his hero."

"Yeah, well, it don't let you off the hook with the cops, does it? Or with Mr. Miller here?"

Miller cleared his throat. "But I'd be willing to work with the police on your sentencing. On one condition."

I sighed, crossed my arms, and turned to face them. "Yeah, what?"

"AA, or the highway, baby," Barnes said, grinning. "Welcome to the family."


	4. Epilogue: Sight Seeing

Epilogue: Sight Seeing

Scott stared at the blank sheet of paper, unsure what to write. He'd been writing in his journal for weeks, but he just got the courage last night to stand up in a crowd of mutants and say the dreaded, "Hi, I'm Scott, and I'm an alcoholic." The phrase still sent shivers down his spine. He knew he had to say it, but now he berated himself for breaking down like a baby in front of them. Still, at least he'd stopped blaming Ororo and the others for his own faults and owned up to the fact that _he_ created the drinking problem—no one else did. A telepath even volunteered to help with the false psychic echoes--an ex-prostitute/drug addict, funny enough. Some weird woman named Emma Frost. She helped him close the smaller floodgates long enough so he could work on his real problem, the alcoholism. It wasn't a long term solution--he still had to deal with his emotional issues--but it was a good start.

He felt freer than he'd ever felt. Freer, definitely, than the first time he let alcohol take him down. Free enough, he thought, looking nervously through the large entry gate, to come...home.

"Take it slow, Scott," Barnes had said. "It'll be tough enough those first few moments. Don't do any more than you feel like you can handle."

_It's too late for that_, he thought.

He hadn't called, but he expected someone already knew he was at the front gate. It didn't take long with that many telepaths running around. But he suspected that Ororo held them off. She probably wanted to let him feel comfortable about coming back, and wanted him to make the choice for himself. _Good plan, 'Ro,_ he thought. _It's going to be hard enough to make amends with everyone. _

He sighed and leaned his back against the gate, staring at the blank page again. He wanted to write something before he went in, but he wasn't sure. "Just write the first thing that comes into your head," Barnes told him, when Scott mentioned he was going home. Barnes was now his sponsor, the person he could talk to whenever he felt like slipping. Barnes was his lifeline. "Just take it one step at a time, Summers. It's a dumb cliché, but it works. Trust me. Tomorrow can take care of itself. You take care of _now_."

_I need...I want a drink_, he thought sadly. _I don't want to go in there. _

Suddenly, he knew what to write:

_I want a drink now. I don't want to go in there. It's 1 o'clock in the afternoon, in the middle of a school session, and I'm scared to death. So scared, that I want to go back to drinking. Some leader, huh? How're they supposed to trust me again? Am I going to go into battle half-pissed? I'm worried that I won't stay sober for long. _

_I'm a different man now, almost a totally different person from two years ago. Is this the "me" Jeannie saw, deep inside? I'm unsure, unconfident, scared, and humbled. Is that good? Barnes says it is. He said that for the first time I'll have to discover the "true" Scott Summers—the one who isn't the super hero or the leader, the one whose spine isn't paralyzed by an iron pole. I can't be in so much control that the control controls me. God, that sounds stupid. Jeannie would be laughing now, maybe even calling me a poster boy for psychobabble. Will I be brave enough to take our things from the closet and put them back on the shelves? I guess we'll see._

Scott looked up from his writing, surprised to see a woman with purple hair smiling down at him.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hello," she said back. A warm spring breeze blew through her hair, emphasizing the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "Aren't you coming in?"

"In a minute. I...I just need to get some things down on paper first."

"All right," she said, nodding. She slowly turned from the gate and walked back to the mansion. He liked how her hips swayed back and forth, like Jean's. "But don't take too long. You're already two years late."

"I know. Honest, I'm coming in."

"I know," she said sweetly.

_Betsy just came by. She reminds me a lot of Jean, when Jean got really...frisky. It scares me that I might have feelings for her, when I haven't even begun to deal with my emotional losses. I guess that's why I'm glad my friends haven't rejected me. They're all in there, waiting for me, as if time stood still. My kids are waiting for me to teach again. My books, my papers, my memories—everything—poised, waiting for me to make my move. I'm scared, but excited too. And relieved, because I've got a second chance, and I've still got a home to return to. Lots of folks don't._

_You know, maybe I can do this. We'll see. Like Barnes said, take care of today. Tomorrow's got enough hell of its own._

--Finis--


End file.
